


a kiss, and all was said

by whalersandsailors



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Compliant, Everybody Lives, Ficlet Collection, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing Meme, Light Angst, M/M, Many are, Prompt Fill, Some have very light sexual content or situations, The Terror Bingo, a couple are, kissing fic, several are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 10,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22519087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: How did it happen that their lips came together? How does it happen that birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that the dawn whitens behind the stark shapes of trees on the quivering summit of the hill? A kiss, and all was said.— Victor HugoA series of kisses; some for comfort, some for distraction, some for affection, and some for play. They are beginnings, endings, and all that lie in-between.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Thomas Jopson, Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Dr Alexander McDonald/Dr Stephan S. Stanley, Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Lt George Hodgson/Lt Edward Little, Lt John Irving/Lt Edward Little, Lt John Irving/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Magnus Manson/Thomas Hartnell, Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little, William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 47
Kudos: 130
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	1. Letters Unanswered (Crozier/Fitzjames)

**Author's Note:**

> so what started as a fun fic meme on tumblr exploded into over 20 prompts and 10k written over the course of four days
> 
> to say the least, I am taking advantage of this by submitting this to The Terror Bingo for my **Free Space**

**A Reception Hosted by the Admiralty**

The dinner, hosted by the Admiralty in honor of the _brave and tragic_ survivors of the expedition, is the last place on Earth that Francis would like to be. In fact, he thinks to himself, a tightly rehearsed smile on his lips as he nods at whatever brainless statement the younger Barrow is spouting, he would give anything to be on a ship surrounded by ice sheets and frigid water once more than to suffer through the social obligations that has followed his miraculous return to England.

He stares morosely at the water in his hand, pondering for an unfair moment, whether he should take up drinking again. His next best option would be to walk across the room, shove his face into the punch bowl, and, if not drown himself, at least enjoy a few second’s peace.

The morbid dwellings in his mind are forgotten momentarily when a man he has not seen in weeks appears before his eyes across the room.

Commander Fitzjames, resplendent and regal in his dress uniform, enters the arched doorway beside Lieutenant Le Vesconte. Francis’s eyes meet his across the way, and his heart stutters in his chest. It has been months since the two of them have seen each other, and all of Francis’s letters, short as they may be, have gone unanswered.

He brusquely interrupts Barrow. “Pardon me, sir. I’m needed elsewhere.”

He does not wait for Barrow to answer as he deposits his untouched glass on the table and quickly makes his way across the room. Fitzjames sees him coming, and there is a brief expression of panic as his eyes widen and he begins to take a half-step back.

Francis is too impatient to care that he is elbowing his way to Fitzjames’s side, and he pointedly ignores the gasp of the woman who gets shouldered out of his way.

“Commander Fitzjames, a pleasure,” he says, placing his hand lightly at Fitzjames’s elbow. “Might I have a word in private? It’s urgent.”

Fitzjames, despite the easy smile on his face, glances frantically at Le Vesconte who looks ready to step in on a moment’s notice.

Francis drops his voice. “Please, James.”

A tremor travels down Fitzjames’s arm where Francis is holding it, but his voice is even when he excuses himself. “I’ll find you later, Dundy, madam.”

The two of them exit the room the same way Fitzjames entered, and Francis quickly tugs him into a deserted hallway where the two of them will not be overheard. When he turns, Fitzjames’s posture has drooped, looking very much like a child about to be scolded.

“How have you been, James?” Francis asks, taking a chance at reaching for his hand this time, rather than his elbow. “I haven’t seen you in months.”

Fitzjames gives a noncommittal shake of his head. “I was doing you a favor, Francis. After the court martial, I assumed that I was the last person you would want to see.”

Francis gapes at him. “Why ever would you think that?”

Unless, he realizes with thunderous dread, Fitzjames would rather not have his career sullied by the disgraced Captain Crozier.

When Fitzjames does not answer otherwise, Francis releases his hand. “Well. If you would rather I leave you be, I can. I’m no stranger to being rebuffed—”

“No!” Fitzjames interjects. “That is not what I want. I thought _you_ didn’t want to see me as a reminder of everything…”

“Did anything in my letters give you that impression?”

Francis steps close to him, setting one hand at Fitzjames waist, the other carefully touching his cheek.

“James, I am old enough that I live with many regrets.” He slides his hand farther, his palm cupping Fitzjames’s jaw and his fingers brushing against the loose strands of hair by his ear. “I do not want that for us.”

He kisses James, half-expecting the man to pull away in disgust, but the ice melts in a great torrent. He kisses back forcefully, his arms circling around Francis’s shoulder. Francis digs his hand deeper into his hair, pulling him down close, and angling the kiss so he may better taste him.

Both of them are breathing hard when the kiss finally breaks.

Fitzjames closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against Francis’s.

“I was frightened that you would hate me, after everything,” he admits, his voice tiny.

Francis chuckles, the sound equally sad and fond. “You could have simply written me back, you wonderful, silly man.”


	2. Shall I Make My Way to You? (Tozer/Irving)

**Edinburgh, Scotland 1850**

He half-expects the address to be fake. The invitation to John’s home was as unexpected as the letter itself, but when Solomon got to very end of the parchment, there were the unmistakable words, scrawled messily: _It has been too long since we have last seen each other. I want to see you. Please_. 

The entreaty was enough for Solomon to pack his bag and make the several-days journey to Edinburgh. He kept moving so fast that the anticipation does not hit him until he stands before the house, hand poised at the door.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

A maid answers, who blessedly does not react to his haggard appearance. She does, however, wait expectantly for him to state his business.

“I’m here for,” he says haltingly. “I’m a friend of Lieutenant Irving.”

She perks at that, eyes widening.

“Of course, sir. Come in.” She pulls the door open, stepping aside. “I’ll fetch him right away, sir.”

He waits near the door, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. A commotion sounds from upstairs, much like a chair or table overturning. Solomon cannot begin to process the sound before John rounds the corner and rushes down the stairs, looking every bit a madman.

Solomon smirks, a quip ready on his tongue, but the jest is cast from his mind when John throws his arms around him, nearly toppling them both to the ground. His earlier anxiety leaves him like a gust of wind. He returns the embrace, leaning heavily on John. 

John has barely pulled away when he glances over his shoulder and tugs Solomon into the adjacent room. When the door is latched behind them, John’s hands are upon him again, pulling Solomon’s face toward him, kissing him soundly. 

The months of absence crash through Solomon, so he returns the kiss with equal force. Their hands move in tandem, John’s wrapping around his shoulders and neck, his own circling John’s waist, one hand gripping his hip.

They are united nearly as one, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, hip to hip. Hands grapple for better leverage, and their knees knock together as they press as close to one another as they can.

When they part, John leans into him, pressing their foreheads together. His eyes are gleaming as he smiles widely and openly.

“You came,” John said, his voice light and breathless. “You came.”

Solomon cannot help but return the smile, his arms pulling John tight against him. “Of course I did.”

John, this man reborn from a trial of ice and desolation, made stronger and kinder from the affliction, says with a directness that he never before possessed, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Now that he is at John’s home, Solomon cannot begin to understand why he was so frightened by the idea of meeting again. John is both the same and changed, but this is also a John with whom Solomon can become pleasantly accustomed.


	3. A Confession (Bridgens/Peglar)

**A Home, Small & Tidy**

The past month has been heavenly for Harry. Typically, he is quick to return to sea when he steps back onto land, but for the first time in his life, he is content to tuck himself away in a tiny set of rooms, over a bustling market street, with a book in his lap and John Bridgens an arms-length away. 

They make do on half-pay, wanting their time together to last as long as it can. Harry treasures the memory of the afternoon when John led him down the street from the dockyard, up a rickety pair of a steps to a door that never properly closed, down the hall to a second door which John unlocked. Once inside, he turned to Harry, hands held out to him, palms up.

“Here we are,” he said, a quiet look of disbelief still crossing his face that Harry followed him all this way, _wanted_ to be within these four walls with him. “This is home.”

Their relationship felt a distinct shift after that, a throbbing energy underlying every shared glance, every fleeting touch. Harry knows what it is, acutely aware of the privacy they now share, unshackled from the close quarters and constant company on ship. 

Every night, they lie down in the same bed, and Harry holds back, despite wanting to close the distance between them. Every time, he talks himself out of it, believing it improper, too hasty. John likewise does not rush it, but then he does have the temperament to rush anything, always taking painstaking effort to enjoy the weather, his food, the warmth from the fire, or Harry’s progress in reading.

Harry decides one evening after dinner that he is done waiting. He sets his book and tea aside, careful to do the same for John when he stands over him and presses an infinitely soft kiss on John’s lips.

John stills like a startled animal, his hands instinctively raising to rest at Harry’s waist. He blinks owlishly at Harry when he pulls away, and Harry glances down briefly, his cheeks hot as he bumps his nose against John’s cheek and laughs quietly.

John’s hand finds his chin, and their eyes meet again.

“I love you,” John tells him. “I always shall, if you will let me.”

Harry does not answer. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he straddles John’s lap as their lips meet again, his hands sliding past John’s jaw to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. John’s hands, the strength always coursing beneath the gentleness, grab his thighs and pull him close. The kiss is long and deep, and a thrill surges through Harry when he hears John moan into his mouth.

When they part, lips red and wet, John secures his grip on Harry’s legs and picks him up. Harry grins, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as John carries him the short distance to their bed.


	4. A Bouquet of Daisies (Crozier/Jopson)

**A Path to the Cemetery**

They walk in silence along the dirt path, Francis close on Thomas’s heel, and Thomas staring resolutely forward. It is unseasonably warm for early spring, and the sun beats down upon their heads with a cruel indifference. 

Francis has half a mind to hold his hand, give him some anchor of reassurance, but Thomas’s hands are occupied by the bouquet of daisies. The white petals bob with his every step, belying the somberness of this trip with their sunny faces.

They reach the plot, much plainer than the churchyard cemetery. Not a single headstone adorns any grave, but some families have painstakingly fashioned wooden crosses or left a large river stone instead. There is otherwise little love expended on the cheerless lot.

Thomas walks past the fence’s gate with the authority of a man who has made the trip often. Francis hesitates, watching instead as Thomas makes his way to a grave toward the back — no marker, save the remains of previous flowers long rotten, Francis notes — and kneels on the stony, yellow grass.

With a start, Francis propels himself forward, the sight of Thomas staring blankly at the grave a strong enough reminder that Francis is the one who insisted that he accompany him on this trip. He joins Thomas, sitting with far less grace, gritting his teeth when his knees creak.

Thomas reaches for the old flowers, holding them beside the new. Francis considers offering to take the flowers and dispose of them in the nearby brush, but Thomas’s quiet, tremulous voice beats him to it.

“She loved flowers. All kinds. Her favorite changed with every day of the week.”

He pauses, inhaling slowly through his nostrils. Francis wraps his arm around him when he sees the first glimmer of tears. 

Thomas ignores them, as they fall, in quick succession down both his cheeks. “We never had the money to buy them. My father called them frivolous, and she agreed. Why spend money on something that would shrivel in a few days when you had coal to buy and mouths to feed.”

His voice catches. “I thought it only fair that she have as many flowers as she wants now.” He glances at Francis, eyes terribly bright and shining, even as he smiles. “It’s the least I can do. After everything.”

There are many things Francis could say, in a clumsy attempt to assuage Thomas’s pain; that her death was not his fault, that she is happier now where she no longer feels pain, that he has not failed his family. Each one falls short of sincerity, and Francis knows eloquence has never been his strong suit.

Instead, he hugs Thomas tighter, tilting his chin up so that he may press his lips against each wet trail on his cheeks. Thomas gasps, a sob stopped short in his throat as he holds onto Francis’s hand as well. He closes his eyes as Francis press several soft kisses along his cheeks and against his jaw where the tears have gathered.

When he stops, Thomas’s face has relaxed once more. The tears have slowed, and Thomas turns into Francis’s hand with a sigh.

“Thank you,” he says, kissing the center of his palm. He opens his eyes, still glimmering with remnant tears. He looks down at the plot and arranges the daisies in several parallel lines so that they blanket half the grave. “I wish you could have met her. She would have liked you.”

Francis’s heart soars at the words. “That is certainly high praise. If she was anything like the son she raised, she must have been an outstanding woman.”

Thomas sniffs, turning to embrace him fully. In a wet voice, muffled against Francis’s jacket, he thanks him again.


	5. Standard Procedure (Goodsir/Collins)

**The Sick Bay, the Day of Collins' Dive**

Henry’s body works against him. Try as he might to quell the shaking, it does not fade, even when his limbs thaw in the lower deck, supplemented with sips of rum.

His superiors send him to the sick bay. _Standard procedure,_ they tell him, each one blithely unaware of the nightmare flashing on the back of Henry’s eyelids. He is tense, eyes averted, when he enters the room at the bow of the ship.

There is some relief when he sees only Mr Goodsir and a slumbering patient are present. Goodsir perks when he enters, a smile gracing his features as he removes his glasses and hurries to Henry’s side. The hand on Henry’s shoulder would have been a pleasure any other day, but he feels numb as Goodsir ushers him into a chair.

“How was it?” Goodsir asks, a blush on his face, eagerness clear in his voice. 

Henry dodges the question. “Lieutenant Le Vesconte told me to come here.”

“Oh! Are you unwell?” When Henry slowly shakes his head, Goodsir suggests, “I can fetch Dr. Stanley, if you—”

Before he can stop himself, Henry reaches for Goodsir, holding him in place. “Please, no.” 

Henry wants to say that he prefers Goodsir’s attention, but the words stop in his throat. His heart thuds rapidly in his chest, and for a brief moment, he fears he may expel the contents of his stomach onto the sick bay floor.

A cautious hand touches his cheek, right above his whiskers. Henry flinches at first but relaxes when Goodsir bends down until they are face-to-face.

“Did something happen, Mr Collins?”

Henry shakes his head again, focusing on the lines deepening on Goodsir’s face. His other hand grabs the front of Goodsir’s coat. His grip unbalances Goodsir who has to step closer, holding both of Henry’s arms to stabilize himself.

They have been careful thus far on the voyage, but the floating corpse of Billy Orren makes Henry fearful of much more than an unwise connexion with Mr Goodsir. Throwing all caution to the wind, he closes his eyes and pulls Goodsir to him, until their foreheads press together. 

“Kiss me,” he whispers, his voice rough and tumble with exhaustion.

Goodsir says nothing. He places a brief kiss right above Henry’s top lip before he runs his fingers through the tangles in Henry’s hair and whiskers, scattering a few more light kisses along his hairline. His hands come to rest on Henry’s shoulders as he straightens, casting a wary glance at the sickbay door.

He squeezes Henry’s shoulders through his coat, giving him a small, sad smile. “We can continue this discussion later.” He looks away, unsure. “Perhaps in your cabin, Mr Collins?”

Henry nods, closing his eyes tight. 

“Yes.”


	6. Infatuated (Manson/Hartnell)

**At Sea, Early in the Voyage**

Magnus quite likes Tom Hartnell and his ability to make Magnus smile and feel at ease. Over the years, he’s gotten used to the jabs — some jokes well-meaning, others harsh and cutting deep.

Tom, on the other hand, has an openness to him that invites Magnus in, compelling him to Tom’s side whenever he is able. He is oblivious to some of the petty remarks the other sailors make about him, how he trails after Tom like a lost child, or worse, a jilted lover.

The passing comments fall on deaf ears as Tom never pushes him away, never reproves Magnus’s attentions. If anything, he seems to appreciate Magnus’s absolute inability to be anything but truthful and earnest.

In fact, both of them become significantly less cross about the prospect of middle watch when they find each other wrapped up in scarfs and their welsh wigs on deck. They gravitate to one another, walking the deck in tandem. The sea is calm, nothing more treacherous in the water than an occasional disk of ice, so the pair of them settle into a long, uneventful watch.

They migrate toward the bow of the ship, where the soft hiss of the ship cutting through the water hypnotizes them both. The moon breaks out from clouds overhead, casting her silver light over the sea, glinting off the scattered ice.

Tom sighs deeply beside him, his shoulder nudging into Magnus.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?” he asks, his voice quiet and full of wonder. “Not a place you expect to be beautiful.”

Smiling, Magnus nudges back, finding himself distracted more by Tom than by the beauty of a nighttime sea. Tom’s face is dimly illuminated by the moonlight and is such a spectrally handsome vision that Magnus cannot tear his eyes away.

Tom notices him staring, but there is neither anger nor repulsion on his face. Just a mild curiosity, his eyes searching Magnus’s.

Magnus starts to lean closer, unthinking, when one of the Marines calls for Tom.

As if breaking from a trance, Tom starts and replies, “Yes, sir,” before slapping a friendly hand on Magnus shoulder and leaving him to the gaze of the moon and the whisper of the waves.


	7. Hands (Hickey/Gibson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **mild sexual content**

**The Orlop, 1846**

Billy does not know if he will ever be used to Hickey’s hands. They are pale, slender, long-fingered, with short, oval-shaped nails. Despite how frail they look, they mask a surprising strength.

This, Billy discovers the first time the two of them take their chances and slip away together, to a damp corner of the orlop where Hickey smiles at him with his eyes, and Billy drops his trousers with zero ceremony. 

Hickey holds his thighs and his waist with enough pressure to bruise. Billy lets him manhandle him, the orchestrated helplessness enough to make his head spin and blood rush to every frozen corner of his body. With every prod and pry of those deft fingers, Billy bites back groans, his eyes inadvertently watering.

He hides his face as Hickey works behind him, several tears falling in quick succession from his eyes. Billy bites his lip hard, feeling frustration well in his chest at himself. He’s not frightened. This is, after all, what he wanted and requested of the caulker’s mate. It also doesn’t hurt. The sensation is one with which Billy is accustomed, having played the role of sea wife before. 

He swipes a rough hand against his cheek, hoping that Hickey does not notice as the smaller man presses his face against Billy’s back, biting his shirt and muffling his moans.

Hickey stills, and Billy sighs tiredly when he pulls away.

“Are you all right, Billy?” 

Before he can answer, Hickey’s hands — their gentleness as powerful and overwhelming as their strength — find his jaw and turns his face toward him. His eyes widen when he sees the wet streaks on Billy’s cheeks, and when Billy tries to pull away, his hands tighten, one thumb pressing where it is wet.

“It’s nothing,” Billy insists, his voice taking a gruff edge. “Go on.”

Hickey frowns at him, turning him so that they are facing one another. With aching gentleness, Hickey leans up and presses a kiss under the wet skin by Billy’s eyes; the action so unexpected that Billy’s eyes shutter close, a ragged sigh exiting him.

“It’s _nothing.”_ He’s crying in earnest before he can stop himself, but Hickey holds him up, those strong hands at his waist, keeping him from collapsing. “Cornelius, please.”

Hickey does not argue with him, but he lowers both of them until they are seated on the cold floor. He holds Billy against him, hands and lips alike wiping away the tears as they fall.


	8. A Sunday Alone (Hartnell/Irving)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> related to [A Sunday Aboard HMS Terror](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21459520)

** The Orlop, 1847 **

It is frigid in the orlop, so both of them are properly wrapped in several layers of coats and scarfs, their heads bent close together while Irving reads the Psalms aloud. The lantern at their side provides light but no warmth, and Tom happily uses the cold as an excuse to sit close to Irving on the crate.

The familiar cadence of Irving’s voice lulls Tom, enough that he closes his eyes and can imagine for a moment that they are somewhere warmer, somewhere nicer. Perhaps a cozy study, a cheerful fire crackling in the grate, the pair of them sitting upon a plush, velvet settee, reclining comfortably instead of hunched and shivering.

The image becomes so clear in Tom’s mind that for a moment it feels real enough that he can hear the rain hitting the window panes, a log bursting into sparks on the fire, and the gentle thud of the Bible as Irving finishes and closes the book.

“Mr Hartnell?”

Irving’s voice drags him back to the present. With some embarrassment, Tom opens his eyes and sits up straight. 

“Sir?” 

Irving clearly wants to say something, his mouth opening and closing several times. Shaking, perhaps from the cold, he sets the Bible aside and reaches for Tom’s hand.

In an instant, Tom is transported to their first Sunday together, where the two of them met in Irving’s cabin and shared an unlikely kiss. Irving has never spoken of the kiss since, though Tom wouldn’t mind if he did.

He would be rather pleased, in fact, should the lieutenant kiss him again.

With Irving’s courage failing him, Tom wills his own bravery to work. He leans forward, slowly enough so as to not startle Irving. To his surprise, Irving meets him in the middle, where their lips shyly brush together.

The kiss is short and sweet. A second later, and Tom pulls away. Both of them open their eyes and stare at one another, the silence between them broken by the distant thud of footfalls overhead and their own, too-loud breaths.

Tom takes a chance.

“John,” he says.

Irving’s hands go to Tom’s jaw as he surges forward. Tom gasps at the impact, his reaction delayed as Irving pulls away long enough to straddle the crate so that may face Tom. He tugs him forward again, this time Tom eagerly reciprocating. 

The kisses are wet and sloppy and far from dignified. Tom buries his hands in the front of Irving’s coat as they kiss again and again, and he cannot stop the moan that vibrates from his chest when Irving threads his fingers through his hair and licks into his mouth.

Irving presses hard against him, so much so that Tom is nearly horizontal. Their lips only break apart for gasps of air before they continue, kissing with the desperation of starving men in the desert. 

They pause when Tom’s head thuds against the crate, and Irving pulls back enough to realize that he has fully climbed on top of Tom. He begins to stutter an apology and clamber off. Tom props himself up on an arm and reaches his hand to Irving’s cheek, silencing him.

“I did not mean,” Irving says, his eyes reluctantly meeting Tom’s as he forces the words out, “to take advantage, Mr Hartnell.”

Tom smiles, his thumb gently stroking along the line of Irving’s beard.

“You’re not, sir,” he assures him. He pulls him down and gives him another short, chaste kiss. Against his will (and common sense), Tom whispers another request against those beautiful, swollen lips.

“Though I certainly would not mind being taken advantage of later, sir. If you’re so inclined.”


	9. A Cup of Coffee for a Kiss (MacDonald/Stanley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **modern!AU**

**A Doctor's Office**

“You know my mam always said if you frown too much, your face gets stuck that way.”

Stanley looks up from his desk with surprise. He hadn’t heard the other doctor enter his office, but there MacDonald sits, reclined in the visitor’s chair, one foot propped up on the accent table. He’s holding a disposable cup of coffee by his face, his eyes twinkling over the lid.

He looks back down at his desk, the frown still in place. “I hardly keep track of my facial expressions, Doctor MacDonald,” he answers icily, continuing tedious work of filling out the forms. 

MacDonald laughs easily, his chair creaking under him as he takes his leg off the table and leans back.

“It’s a joke, Stephen,” he says. “I happen to find your terribly serious frowns quite endearing.”

Stanley sets his pen down, fixing MacDonald with a hard stare. “Dr. MacDonald, do you have nothing better to do than distract me from my work?”

MacDonald holds his hands up. “Oh, you wound me, doctor. I thought we were on a first name basis, by now.”

A blush comes unbidden onto Stanley’s cheeks. “At work, _Alex,_ I like to maintain some—”

“’Modicum of professionalism,’” MacDonald finishes for him, rising to his feet. “Yes, yes, I know. Difficult as that is for me, I will do my best to respect your wishes.”

Stanley nods, the banter with MacDonald a skillset that he still hasn’t fully developed.  
  
His efforts are further undermined when MacDonald comes round his desk and plants a big, wet kiss on his forehead. MacDonald skips out of his reach as Stanley swats at him, his scowl growing worse by the second.

“Alex—”

“Have it your way,” he says as he deposits the cup of coffee on Stanley’s desk. “Besides, I have surgery in an hour and only stopped by to give you a much needed caffeine boost. I will gladly get out your hair.”

He leans over the desk to give Stanley another kiss on his cheek, which Stanley accepts without comment, the furrow deep in his brow. He feels his face grows hot, but thankfully, MacDonald spares him any comment on that.

As he exits, he says over his shoulder, “Also, don’t forget we’re having dinner with Harry and Silna tonight at seven. That lovely Italian restaurant you’ve been wanting to try.” He winks before going through the door. “Don’t wear yourself out too much, Dr. Stanley.”

Stanley watches as the door swings shut, and he is once again left to his thoughts. His eyes slide over to the coffee cup, steam curling from the small opening in the lid, where it sits beside a framed photo of him and MacDonald at a black tie function. In the photo, both of them are dressed in tailored suits, their arms loosely wrapped around each other. MacDonald beams at the camera, but Stanley is gazing only at MacDonald, a small but warm smile on his face.

Stanley shakes his head and takes a sip of coffee.


	10. Horseplay (Jopson/Little)

**The Little Family's Country Estate**

Discovering the myriad differences between Commander Little and Mr Little has been a continuous series of surprises; perhaps, most of all, unearthing his impatience and his daring. Thomas particularly enjoys indulging in the attention of one Ned Little in the privacy of a locked parlor while the rest of the house’s inhabitants are downstairs.

He considers, distantly, when Edward is upon him in a second, plucking the cup of tea from his hand and kissing him so soundly that he topples out of his chair, that perhaps there is a margin for more discretion.

The thought is cast from his mind, as he squirms away, and Edward gives chase.

Thomas does not try very hard to evade capture, as Edward’s arms and lips find him again by the desk; the backs of his thighs collide with the gold-leaf handles with a loud thud. An ink pot tips over on the desk’s surface with a clatter.

The commotion they cause does not deter them, as Thomas ducks out of Edward’s arms, grinning at him as dodges around the sofa, Edward close on his heels. When he catches Thomas by the hip, he twirls him so that they are facing. 

A loud laugh slips from Thomas before he can control it, but Edward silences him with another kiss, playfully nibbling at his lips as they continue walking. Their feet stumble over each other, and Thomas wraps his arms around Edward’s neck, allowing the other man to guide him.

He huffs when his back hits the door, hard enough that the knob rattles.

Thomas pulls away, breathing hot against Edward’s lips. “You keep this up, Mr Little, and someone will catch on sooner or later—”

Sooner, apparently, as they both grow still when hurried footsteps shuffle down the hallway and stop outside the door.

There is a tentative knock. “Mr Little? Are you all right?” The maid tries turns the doorknob next, which thankfully they had the foresight to lock. “Freddie heard a bang and thought you might have hurt yourself.”

Edward has to cover Thomas’s mouth when he is struck by a giggling fit. Edward raises an eyebrow at Thomas even as the smile grows large on his own face.

“No, ah, thank you, Mrs Bell. I’m fine. I took a stumble on the new rug, is all.”

A particularly strong puff of air slips through Edward’s fingers, so Thomas hides his face in the shoulder of Edward’s waistcoat to muffle anymore laughter.

Outside, Mrs Bell sounds unconvinced. “Well, if you’re certain, Mr Little. Would you like a fresh pot of tea for you and your…gentleman friend?”

“No,” Edward says, his voice lurching several notes higher when Thomas nips the skin peeking out from Edward’s collar, “that won’t be necessary. Thank you, Mrs Bell.”

“Of course, sir,” she replies, waiting a few moments before they finally hear her footsteps recede.

Edward pulls away from Thomas, a deep frown on his face while Thomas inclines his head with as much innocence as he can muster before another wave of giggles hit him.

“If I keep this up, you say?” Edward asks in mock reproach, grabbing and tickling Thomas’s sides as they move from the door toward the sofa.

Thomas laughs and lets himself be pushed onto the cushions.

“I suppose we’re both rather hopeless, aren’t we?”


	11. We Take It Slow, Until We Don't (Hodgson/Little)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **modern!AU, mild sexual content** , same verse as [Allegro, B Flat Major](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388933) & [Ostinato](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407703)

**A Small Flat, with barely room enough for a Piano & Dog**

George is surprised to find Edward asleep on his couch. He clearly did not mean to end that way, as his reading glasses are crooked on his nose and his laptop — turned to a quaint screensaver of an aquarium that George has not seen on _any_ computer in years — has fallen between his legs and the cushions. 

Fondness buzzes like a soft flame in George’s chest as he sets his bag down on the piano bench and tiptoes to the front of the couch. He holds his breath to keep himself from chuckling as he removes Edward’s glasses and closes the laptop, stashing it safely on the floor.

Still, Edward sleeps, a small frown creasing the line between his eyebrows that George wants to wipe away with his thumb. He refrains from touching Edward quite yet as he perches on the edge of the couch beside him.

He leans close, pressing two feathery light kisses on Edward’s eyes; first his left, then his right, each kiss lingering for a few seconds on the sensitive skin. 

Edward wakes with a start, sucking in a sharp breath. His eyes flutter open, the lashes tickling George’s lips, so he sits back, the withheld laughter spilling from him.

“Good morning,” he chirps; with a quick glance to his clock, he corrects himself; “Evening, rather.”

For his part, Edward does not look upset at being woken, but his eyes droop as he tugs George down to lie with him on the couch. George has nowhere else to be this evening, so he complies with no struggle. Wrapped as tight as nesting dolls, Edward lets out a content sigh as George nuzzles his forehead, and within minutes, the two of them fall asleep.

***

The first time George and Edward sleep together is a comedy of errors. It happens spontaneously, starting with a few shared kisses in the kitchenette when George is struck by the silly idea of leading Edward in a ridiculous, two-left-feet waltz. The kisses are longer and more frequent by the time they stumble onto the piano bench, and they intensify even more as they migrate to the couch and eventually the bed.

  1. They forget about Neptune. 



It is not until the dog is roused from his nap by their rather athletic making-out that Neptune deems it necessary to save his owner from the gangly blond man on top of him. Edward, red-faced, his trousers already undone, quickly takes Neptune back to his own flat next door.

  1. George remembers that he does not have any condoms. 



This information he recalls only once he and Edward are almost entirely divested of their clothes and, to his horror, in the thick of things. In a quavering voice, Edward says he has some. His eyes are staring down at the duvet, and most certainly not at any single body part of George’s or his own. George lends him a pair of joggers, and Edward hastily makes the trip next door again.

  1. George has a (very much mild, absolutely not serious or mood-killing) panic attack that he has never had sex with a man before Edward.



When Edward returns with a couple condoms stashed in the pocket of the joggers, he notices George’s distress, and the two of them pause in their activities to have a heart-to-heart, in which George admits feelings stronger than he initially realized, and in which Edward looks about ready to cry. George feels immediately guilty, but Edward hugs him and laughs when they kiss again.

  1. It does not last long.



George apologizes pro ~~f~~ usely, the blush spreading so far on his face that tips of his ears feel hot. Edward shakes his head, looking as relaxed and pleased as a cat who’s found the cream of the crop, and pulls him down for a kiss, smiling against George’s lips. Once George’s embarrassment fades, Edward guides his hands, showing what he likes and where to touch.

  1. It is more than he could ever have hoped for.



Edward still feels like a dream sometimes, even as their relationship extends into months. They doze afterwards, George waking with a start to find Edward rolled away. He scoots closer under the sheets and presses a soft kiss on his shoulder, on an isolated freckle near his neck. When he stirs, George wraps his arms around him, whispering a promise into the warm skin of his back that he plans to never let go, not for a long while yet.


	12. Like a Bad Pun (Tozer/Hickey)

**Terror Camp**

Tozer sits alone in the Marines’ tent, his rifle disassembled and lying in neat lines before him on the blanket. The ritual of cleaning and oiling the rifle, with her many intricate parts, has always been a pleasure for Tozer, something tactile that he can hold in the palm of his hand, something that can ground him with its tangible reassurance. Something that is fully in his control and ability to fix.

His solitude is interrupted when Hickey slips through the flap of the tent, as quiet as a phantom.

Tozer notices him enter, but he bites tongue, keeping his gaze focused entirely on his work.

Hickey perches on a nearby crate, looking down on Tozer like some bizarre, living effigy. When neither he nor Tozer speaks, he begins to tap his foot against the side of the crate, the noise rhythmic enough to be irritating.

Tozer tosses the rag he is using onto the blanket.

“Aren’t you required elsewhere, Mr Hickey?” he snaps.

“At the moment, no,” Hickey says with a tiny grin as he hops down and sits beside Tozer.

He eyes the rifle with glittering curiosity but wisely keeps his hands folded over his lap.

Tozer watches him wearily before retrieving the rag. “Then _find_ somewhere else. I want to be alone.”

No such luck, as Hickey scoots closer and props his chin on Tozer’s shoulder.

Tozer lets out a long-suffering sigh and shrugs him off. Nimble fingers loosen a section of his scarf, followed shortly by a pair of lips against the side of his neck. Hickey hits a nerve, and a shudder courses through Tozer as he throws the rag aside again. He wrestles Hickey to the ground, pinning his arms beneath him.

“Will you stop?” Tozer demands.

Hickey smiles lazily up him, lifting a leg and rubbing it against Tozer’s flank. “Come now, sergeant. It’s not often that you and I get to be alone.”

Despite the pressure of his arms, he manages to lean close enough to nip Tozer’s chin. Tozer shoves him back, but Hickey lifts his hips, wrapping both legs around Tozer’s thighs and pulling him down with him.

With a groan, Tozer gives in, for a few seconds at least. The kiss is far from gentle, more tongue and teeth than anything romantic, but Hickey’s hums happily. His arms snake around Tozer’s neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Tozer eventually pulls away, wincing when he feels one of Hickey’s canines puncture his lip. He sits up with a scowl, thumbing the blood away.

“There,” he says, “you got what you want. Now, will you go?”

Hickey smiles. “And leave you to what?” He rolls his hips with purpose, his smile taking a wicked slant when the pressure elicits a gasp from Tozer. “Oiling your gun?”

With a growl, Tozer plants his hand in the center of Hickey’s chest, forcing him down and kissing him once again.


	13. Suddenly, Desperately (Hartnell/Irving)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **modern!AU**

**Returning Home, a Cozy Flat**

Never before has John believed it possible to be so helplessly and desperately addicted to one person, to the scent of their clothes, or the taste of their mouth, or the warm weight of them gathered in his arms.

It would seem Tom Hartnell has a talent for upending a number of John’s previously stalwart beliefs.

And certainly, Tom has no complaints when John arrives home, after a month abroad, and is upon him even before the door latches shut. He was in the kitchen, making a cup of coffee when John throws his bags onto the floor by the entryway and comes up behind him, wrapping his arms tight around Tom’s midsection and burying his face in the nape of Tom’s neck.

He lays a smattering of kisses along his shoulder before Tom gives up on the coffee and turns to meet him, his lips landing somewhere along the line of John’s beard before finding his mouth. John presses into him, vaguely aware of how rough he’s being, but Tom lets himself be pushed onto the counter, grinning against John’s mouth.

The kiss morphs into a series of licks and bites, fingers scrambling for better purchase on the counter or more soft skin hidden under jumpers and shirts. John thanks God, heaven, and angels alike that Tom is just as impatient as he is, when he gives a playful shove, hops from the counter, and tugs John’s belt, leading him out the kitchen.

His eyes are glittering, and he starts to make some smart remark that gets lost in another kiss as John rushes to him, holding his jaw in place as they kiss long and hard. They walk backwards, the bedroom their hopeful destination. Such plans are nearly aborted when they trip over John’s abandoned bags, knocking into the console table. The lamp on the table sways dangerously, and Tom reaches a blind hand to steady it.

John couldn’t care less if the lamp broke, as he keeps pressuring into Tom until his back hits the wall. Silent laughter courses through Tom’s shoulders as he runs his hands along John’s neck.

He pushes back just as hard, angling them so that John walks backward toward their living room. John’s heel catches on the rug, and he spins them to try to keep his balance. The kiss breaks momentarily, but Tom does not let him get far, helping his shed his coat before sliding his hands into John’s collar and yanking him back.

At some point, they reach the couch — or the back of it. Tom grunts when he collides with the upholstery, and he tries to guide them to the front while John plants a series of wet, open-mouthed kisses along his neck.

They make it to the side, before tumbling over the couch’s arm. John slots easily between Tom’s thighs while Tom hooks a leg around John’s calf and grabs both sides of John’s waist. Tom hums happily into his mouth as the kisses finally begin to slow.

Unwilling as John is to end something he has missed dearly for the last four weeks, he sits up, propping himself on his arms. He smiles with far more shyness than he likely deserves, considering his tongue was just shoved in Tom’s mouth and his hand hovering at the waistband of Tom’s trousers.

Tom, however, gives him a toothy grin, rubbing his hand briskly along John’s flank.

“Welcome back.”

“I missed you,” John says, somewhat embarrassed, his hand reaching up to fix Tom’s mussed hair.

“I noticed,” Tom replies with a laugh, catching John’s hand and kissing it. “I missed you, too.”


	14. A Brief Respite (Goodsir/Collins)

**Camped on the Ice, the day they abandoned ship**

Goodsir brings Collins to his tent, away from prying eyes and open ears. Collins is eerily calm despite his earlier distress, and Goodsir worries that the man will bury more of his fears if he does have a gentle hand to take them from him.

They sit, facing each other, on the pallet of Goodsir’s bed. Collins’s eyes remain on the ground, though he does not object when Goodsir reaches for both his hands.

After a few seconds of silence, Goodsir asks, “Will it help to speak more of it?”

Collins takes a long, shuddering breath through his nostrils. “I would rather not.”

Goodsir nods, stroking his knuckles with his thumb. “Then we won’t.” 

For such a large man, Collins folds into himself, head drooping low, chin digging into his chest, shoulders hunching forward. The sight rends Goodsir’s heart, so he tugs at Collins’s arms to urge him forward. 

He comes willingly, pliant and limp as Goodsir circles his arms around Collins’s broad shoulders. He rubs a hand between his shoulder blades, relieved when some of the tension recedes in Collins’s back. He hums tunelessly, the songs of his childhood warped by time, but the sound must be a comfort nonetheless because Collins turns into him more, burying his face into the collar of his jacket.

They remain in their embrace for several minutes, Collins breathing hard and Goodsir humming lullabies. Only when his leg begins to cramp does Goodsir move, lying flat on the blankets and pulling Collins down beside him.

Lying face-to-face, their noses are only inches apart. Goodsir runs his fingers along Collin’s cheek, to which Collins sighs appreciatively. He slips his arms around Goodsir’s waist once more, closing the distance between them. The kiss is chaste, both of their lips dry and warm. Collins digs his fingers into Goodsir’s jacket, and Goodsir scoots closer, until their chests and legs bump together.

They part, eyes opening and staring at each other in wonder.

Collins whispers, as though fearful of making a sound, “Do you think we will be all right, doctor?”

Goodsir nods. “I believe we will.”

This time, he kisses Collins, his hands cupping both sides of his jaw. Collins’s arms are strong around his waist, squeezing tight as one kiss becomes two, then three, then four— Collins hoists him on top, and Goodsir gasps against his lips in surprise, hesitant to put all his weight on the man. Collins erases his worries however, when he tangles a hand in Goodsir’s hair and takes his bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling and sucking. A moan rises from Goodsir involuntarily. Part of him wonders with abrupt lucidity if he should be embarrassed or more cautious.

When Goodsir pulls an inch away with a gasp, Collins stares up at him, flushed, his lips red. His eyes search Goodsir’s face before hazarding a smile and cupping his cheek.

Goodsir sighs, settling more comfortably on top, and leans down to kiss him again.


	15. Rituals of Comfort (Jopson/Little)

**A Cottage by the Sea**

They have lived together for a few months, in the seaside cottage that Edward used his pension and inheritance to purchase. Even in those short weeks, he cannot imagine how he has lived so long without Thomas Jopson by his side or in his bed.

Their routine does not vary much from day to day, but after years of regimented time at sea followed by the upheaval of the monster and their march across Arctic wasteland, the monotony is soothing.

The day starts with Thomas rising first, stoking the fire and putting a pot on for tea. He rouses Edward with a soft kiss on his brow who, in turn, clings and curls into Thomas until the water boils in the kettle.

They finally separate themselves as Thomas makes tea and Edward fixes the bed, lying out his shaving kit. He waits patiently for Thomas to return to help him dress and shave, another habit adopted from his years of stewardship that Thomas insisted that he keep. 

“I like taking care of you,” he explains one morning as he lathers Edward’s cheeks. He presses a quick kiss against the side of Edward’s nose, whispering with his eyes closed. “Please don’t take that away from me.”

The rests of the day are spent in equally blissful tedium. Thomas sits by the fire, his bad leg propped up, as he reads or mends their socks. Whenever Edward steps by, fetching a book from the shelf or another biscuit from the pantry, he presses a quick kiss on the crown of Thomas’s head. Focused as he is, Thomas never looks up, but Edward is always pleased to see a small smile or faint blush gracing his features when passes by again.

For Edward, his days are spent at his desk, working figures, writing correspondence, or — most dreaded of all — eking out the bumbling sentences of the memoir that he has been commissioned to write. His concentration is never broken, as the candle burns low, waxy pools collecting in the pewter base. But his cup never empties of a fresh, warm tea, the ghostly sensation of a kiss on his shoulder as the nib of his pen scratches along the paper.

It is summer yet, so they end their days enjoying the long evenings by the sea. They either walk into town or make their way to the rocky beach, where they watch the sun’s slow descent into the horizon. Thomas reaches for Edward’s hand, ever mindful of neighbors’ or the towns inhabitants, and in lieu of kissing him, he squeezes his fingers, three times, and — with a soft smile, his eyes ever forward — Edward squeezes back.


	16. Be Safe (Little/Irving)

**Terror Camp**

Their cheer is strong after the meeting, despite the ill news concerning the tins. Jopson’s unexpected promotion infused them all with a sense of hope. Irving’s cheeks smart from smiling so much, and even Little seems unburdened as the two of them walk to the tent they share with Hodgson.

“I’m sorry that I can’t accompany you,” Little says, the ghost of a smile still on his face.

Irving’s heart leaps at the statement, and he quickly looks away, entering their tent. He slips his spyglass into his pocket first before retrieving his hat and rifle. He busies himself brushing away nonexistent dust from both.

“I’m certain that George and I will fare well enough,” he allows himself to say, casting a quick glance over his shoulder to where Little stands by the tent’s entrance. “Perhaps God will smile on our efforts, and we’ll come back with fresh bear.”

“Perhaps,” Little says, with a muted chuckle. “God-willing.”

They both hesitate at the door, Little staring at the gap in the canvas, Irving feeling swallowed by the bulk of his greatcoat and slops.

“Well.” Irving fixes his hat on his head. “George will be back soon.”

“Yes, he will be.” Little pats him on the shoulder, the hand lingering for several seconds.

Irving’s heart begins to race, mind scrambling to come up with anything, any further affirmation. Even through the multiple layers, Irving can imagine the warmth of Little’s hand, the rough texture of his palm. Little’s gaze has shifted to him. His expression is blank, more guarded than before, but Irving can almost see the question within his eyes.

They are standing very close, Irving distantly thinks to himself. His body acts of its own accord, and Irving finds himself leaning toward Little, seeking his solid presence.

Irving freezes when his face is inches from him.

“I—don’t know what’s overcome me,” he stutters, beginning to reel back, “Pardon me.”

Little pulls him back with the gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. Irving’s face erupts in color when he feels the brief pressure of lips on his, gone again before he has enough sense to react.

“Edward?” he asks, terribly unsure, terribly hopeful, the fear and desire coiling into a single, massive knot in Irving’s stomach.

The hand at his shoulder pats again as Little opens the tent and starts to exit. He looks back at Irving with a smile, smaller than before but infinitely more fond.

“I’ll see you when you return, John,” he says. “Be safe.”


	17. Soon the Nightmares Will Fade (Bridgens/Peglar)

**A Long Ways from the Arctic**

John is woken by a plaintive cry. When he opens his eyes, the room is lit by the pale beginnings of dawn, and he turns head to find Harry, still sleeping, turned into him. One of his hands has strayed to John’s sleeve where it has curled into a tight claw on his elbow.

When another sob breaks from Harry’s lips, John blinks the sleep from his eyes and gently shakes Harry’s shoulder.

“Harry?” He keeps his voice low. “Wake up, my love. You’re safe. You’re here.”

He has to pry Harry’s hand off his arm so that he may turn to face him, and when Harry’s eyes fly open, he looks around wildly, breathing hard. 

He looks ready to run, so John hurriedly wraps his arms around his shoulders and pulls him into a tight embrace. Harry tenses, hands poised to push back, but after a few seconds of John hushing him and stroking the back of his head, he relaxes, tears falling unbidden down his cheeks.

The nightmares are becoming rarer, the farther removed they are from their ordeal on the ice, but they never cease to worry John, the way they worm into Harry’s mind and torment him with terrible visions of illness and death.

Harry presses his face into John’s shoulder, where his shirt absorbs the wetness of his tears. He sniffs pitifully, but John is patient as he waits for Harry to sit up himself.

John keeps his arms loosely wrapped around him, as Harry wipes at one of his eyes. His face is pale, and shadows accentuate his eyes, making him look years old, and terribly exhausted. But the sobs have stopped, much to John’s relief.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Harry mumbles, seeking one of John’s hands to clutch.

John kisses his forehead, whispering against the skin, “Don’t be.” He moves his lips to his cheeks, kissing the skin underneath each eyes, thumbing away the damp trails. “You needn’t ever be sorry for that.”

Harry’s eyes squeeze shut as another tear slips down his cheek. John stops it with lips, pressing a lingering kiss where it fell. 

“I want them to stop,” Harry whispers, with such despair in his voice that John’s heart breaks with him.

He pulls Harry against him into his lap and nestled against his chest. 

“We’ll fight them together, Harry,” John promises him, with another kiss to the crown of his head.


	18. A Future Yet (Hartnell/Irving)

**Camped on the Ice, the day they abandoned ship**

The kiss was a long time coming, Tom knows that, but for lack of better timing or venue, it still takes him by surprise.

Setting up camp on the ice is treacherous, but the tents are standing in less than an hour, their dinner cooking on the stove. Lieutenant Irving pulls him aside, requesting his assistance in counting the food stores. Tom follows him without question, fully understanding the importance of the rations in the weeks to come. 

(There is warmth nestled deep in his chest that it is _he_ whom Irving requested and not another, perhaps more fitting, crewman.)

Irving holds the list in his hands, writing down the provisions and their numbers as Tom relays each one to him from where he balances himself among the crates in the sledge. He himself does not know the significance of the numbers or how the officers will deduce from them the size of the rations, best suited for their survival.

He chooses instead to put his trust fully in his superiors. Any other way would invite only madness.

When he jumps down from the side of the sledge, his heart leaps into his throat when Irving holds a hand out and helps him. He does not immediately let go, and even in the poor light, Tom can see the frown working on Irving’s face.

“Will it be enough, do you think, sir?” He poses the question as a source of distraction for the lieutenant, and he can already see the calculations turning over in his eyes.

Irving stays quiet, however, his hand still wrapped around Tom’s arm. Tom forces himself to keep still, unsure if he should say something more, if that would be too impolite of him. He searches Irving’s face for any sign, landing more than once on his lips, dragging his eyes up every time. 

“It will have to be,” Irving finally answers. His hand grips tighter on Tom’s arm as he steps close, his gaze rising to meet Tom’s. “It _will_ be.”

Tom nods, trying to find reassurance, if not in Irving’s words than at least in his presence. His eyes, of their own damned accord, drift to Irving’s mouth once more. Tom licks his lips, ready to wish the lieutenant good night and step away.

He jerks when Irving slides his gloved hand to his cheek and pulls him into a kiss, the motion fluid and fast, as though he acted before losing his nerve. A vividly clear part of Tom’s mind finds it rather hilarious, that his superior would kiss him in the dreadful cold beside their makeshift sled in the middle of god-knows-where after the tedious task of organizing their provisions.

Irving pulls away abruptly. His mouth hangs open, eyes wide.

“I’m _so_ sorry—”

“Please, don’t. Sir.” Tom shakes his head, feeling brave enough to search for Irving’s hand that he may hold it between his own. “Don’t apologize. Not for that.”

Were it a better time, Tom might ask Irving to kiss him again. Were he a more reckless man, he would kiss Irving back himself. Instead, he contents himself with holding Irving’s hand, cherishing the small smile that gradually grows on Irving’s face.

He promises himself that the future will be enough, and that they may yet find one another together in that future.


	19. Growing Old (Jopson/Little)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired both by the prompt but also oochilka's [art](https://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/190519394404/older-joplittle)

**The Park, on a Rainy Day**

Their walks have become a daily habit, even when the sky is overcast and wet, and Thomas must rely more upon Edward’s arm than his cane. Edward never complains, secretly enjoying having Thomas lean on him.

They are halfway when the rain begins to fall in earnest, and despite the summer month, the droplets are as cold as shards of ice. Thomas makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat but follows Edward’s lead as they hurry down the path.

“There’s a gazebo nearby,” Edward reminds him. “We’ll wait there until it lets up.”

Thankfully, the shelter is empty, but Edward supposes that he should not be surprised. The foul weather has encouraged most gentlemen and ladies to languish the day in their parlors, sitting close to the fire and sipping tea. 

He, however, has always enjoyed fresh air and was not about to let a little water deter him. His stubborn pleasure flags somewhat as he watches Thomas struggle onto the bench, gingerly rubbing a hand over his trouser leg.

“Does it hurt much?” Edward asks as he sits down with him.

Thomas shakes his head, managing a smile. “It’s worse when it rains.”

Edward drapes his arm on the back of the bench, close but not quite touching Thomas’s shoulders. “It’s better than snow, at least.” He pauses, before adding, “Though I am sorry for dragging you out in this.”

Thomas slaps a dismissive hand against Edward’s thigh. “Oh, please, you hardly forced me.” 

They sit in silence, the sound of rain upon the tin roof soothing and melodious. Much to Edward’s chagrin, the rain falls harder, and he wonders in the back of his mind how long they have before their kind but overbearing maid begins to wring her hands. 

He turns to Thomas to find his eyes shut, face angled toward him. His heart swells at the sight, and Edward ducks his head to give him a quick kiss when Thomas’s eyes open. He pulls away, frowning as though offended.

“Mr Little,” he admonishes, the syllables of his name drawn out in faux offense, “Now is hardly the most appropriate time to kiss your dear friend. In public, no less.”

Edward barks a laugh. There is not a soul in sight, so he plucks Thomas’s chin between his fingers and presses a long kiss against the pink of Thomas’s cheek.

For all his posturing, Thomas does not complain again, leaning into the contact and curling his hand into Edward’s collar. He interlaces their free hands together, and Edward is pleased to see the blush has grown darker upon Thomas’s skin.

Testing his boundaries once again, Edward trails his fingers along Thomas’s laugh lines and crows feet, traveling to the flecks of gray growing along his temple. Faintly, he hears the noise of a horse and carriage and draws his hand away.

He sits a bit closer, however, dropping his voice when he says, “Were it up to me, Mr Jopson, I would give that dear friend of mine a thousand such kisses, no matter who saw.”

Thomas sighs and rolls his eyes, but there is a fond smile on his face, still as beautiful as the day Edward first met him.


	20. New Beginnings (Tozer/Little)

**A Camp, Somewhere South of Back Fish River**

Events take a turn for better, with leads in the ice and fresh game caught by the hunting parties. Optimism infects every man, so that there is lively fireside chatter and singing this evening as they camp by the river.

Solomon waits around the corner from the stove, hoping to snag a minute alone with Lieutenant Little.

Ever since Solomon stumbled back into the main camp alongside Crozier — the captain vouching for his presence when several men trained their panicked sights on Solomon — something has been nagging the back of his mind, concerning Little.

He sees his opportunity when Little walks by with his plate of rations, thankfully alone.

“Sir,” he says as he falls into step with him.

Little jerks his head in surprise. He nods when he sees it is Solomon at his side. “What is it, sergeant?”

“Can we speak somewhere quiet, sir?”

That gets Little’s attention, his gait slowing down. The line between his brow deepens as he stares intently at their feet, before giving another shallow nod.

“Follow me,” he answers, and without looking behind him, Little walks across the camp toward the officers’ tent, Solomon close behind him.

It is light outside, but the interior of the tent is dark. Solomon waits as Little fumbles with matches and lights a lamp. The tent is almost empty, but for several pallets toward the back and a couple crates for seats.

Little sets aside his plate but makes no sign of sitting. Solomon, likewise, remains standing.

After a long pause, neither of them speaking, Little wets his lips and turns to him. “What did you need to tell me?”

Solomon is beginning to lose his nerve, so he asks in a rush, “You weren’t one of the men about to shoot me when I came back. Why?”

Little blinks, frowning. “You were with the captain. He told those men to lay down their arms.”

“Yet you never raised yours.”

“Captain Crozier said that we were to welcome you back—”

Solomon interrupts, his words overlapping Little’s, “It’s not the captain’s good opinion I care about.”

Little snaps his mouth shut, his eyes wide and staring helplessly. Solomon steps closer to him, fueled by his quickly disappearing nerve. He takes Little’s hand, heart beating faster when Little lets him. Little looks down at their joined hands, mouth opening and closing several times as he searches for something to say.

Only inches separate them now. Solomon tests his luck, resting his other hand at Little’s cheek, his beard coarse against his palm.

Eyes still averted, Little murmurs so softly that Solomon has to lean in to hear, “I had you once at gunpoint. I didn’t want that again.”

Now is Solomon’s turn to hesitate. 

He strokes his thumb against Little’s cheek, and when Little breathes in deeply and raises his eyes to meet his, Solomon finds his courage.

“This might be unfair of me to ask, but I’m not wasting my chance again.” He pauses, holding Little’s hand tighter, his thumb migrating to the dip beneath Little’s mouth. “If we get home — when we get home — I want us to meet again. Not as lieutenant and sergeant, but as men. Just us, as we are.”

Little’s eyes search his face, lingering on his mouth. Solomon slides his thumb higher, where he presses it against the soft skin of Little’s bottom lip. He traces the shape of it before applying more pressure.

A quiet gasps parts Little’s lips as his eyes flutter shut, and Solomon can longer restrain himself.

He lifts Little’s chin and kisses him. It is short, but as he retreats, Little clutches his coat and kisses him back. The second kiss is longer, as they explore their boundaries, tasting and touching each other, hands groping for woolen lapels and unkempt hair.

When at last they part, Solomon keeps his eyes closed, nuzzling his nose against Little’s.

“Is that a yes, sir?”

Solomon opens his eyes to see a smile on Little’s face — blindingly beautiful and precious for its rarity.

Little reaches for his hand again. “Yes. It is.”


End file.
